


The Demons of our Past

by OrangeChickenPillow



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bruises, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Geraskier Exchange (The Witcher), Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Male Bonding, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeChickenPillow/pseuds/OrangeChickenPillow
Summary: Jaskier was no stranger to bad days. Bad days happened sometimes -- the result of a less-than-pleasant childhood. Well, less-than-pleasant was, to put it lightly, an understatement.After leaving his parents and his home behind, Jaskier had expected his hardships to leave him as well. But the trauma of his younger days stayed with him, following him like a loyal dog everywhere he went.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 176





	The Demons of our Past

**Author's Note:**

> Content/trigger warning:  
> depictions of self-injury/self-harm. They are not graphic (it comes in the form of self-inflicted bruising) but if this is something that might trigger you, please do not read. Also mentions of anxiety/panic/PTSD attacks. Take care of yourselves.
> 
> I was kind of unsure about releasing this, as the subject can be a little iffy sometimes. Just know that this fic does not come from a place of ignorance, and my intentions are not to hurt anyone, only to shed a light on some things that I have experienced in my own life, dealing with anxiety and other mental health. But I figured I would give it a try, so here it is. 
> 
> Stay safe and well everyone.

Jaskier was no stranger to bad days. Bad days happened sometimes -- the result of a less-than-pleasant childhood. Well, less-than-pleasant was, to put it lightly, an understatement. 

After leaving his parents and his home behind, Jaskier had expected his hardships to leave him as well. But the trauma of his younger days stayed with him, following him like a loyal dog everywhere he went. 

His one saving grace had been his job as an entertainer. Even from a young age, Jaskier had loved to sing and perform. But the people around him had been less than supportive, so he’d always assumed that no one would ever like his singing. 

It had taken him years before his first public performance, and even then it had been an accident. Late one night, in the room of an inn, he had played his lute and sung one of his favorite ballads. When he was interrupted by a knock on his door, he was horrified to discover that the rest of the visitors had been able to hear him. 

He’d apologized profusely, expecting to be thrown out or chastised - or worse. But they had brushed aside his apologies, begging him to sing another. And thus Jaskier the Bard was born. With his newfound purpose in life, he traveled the world. It was modest work, but enough to live on, and for once, he felt truly accepted. 

But the troubles of his past, annoyingly, did not ease up, and Jaskier was forced to resolve to the fact that they would always affect him. 

He did his best to cope with his emotions. Sometimes he got so jittery that he couldn’t breathe. Other times a smell or a taste would remind him of something that had happened to him as a child, and he’d feel so overwhelmed that he’d be sick. Even worse were the days that his chest felt like it would burst, and he was genuinely afraid he might die. 

Jaskier had been to see several healers, and they all told him that there was nothing physically wrong with him. 

‘Fantastic,’ He’d thought. ‘I suppose I’m just like this then.’ 

But over time, Jaskier had discovered ways to cope with these things, and though not all of them were particularly healthy, they were the only things that seemed to help ease the pain. 

Over time, Jaskier got used to episodes of panic, and found that he was even able to recognize the warning signs. 

He coped as best he could, trying not to let his strange moods spoil his adventures as a performer. And he managed fine enough, for a while. 

But then something changed. Then Jaskier met a strange white haired Witcher in a tavern after one of his many performances. Thanks to Geralt, his life became different. 

Jaskier traveled with the Witcher for several months, following Geralt’s adventures and writing fantastic ballads to share with the world. 

Initially, Jaskier had only seen the opportunity as one to further his fame, but the longer he traveled with the Witcher, the more the bard actually grew to like him. By the end of their first few weeks together, Jaskier felt as if he could confidently call the Witcher his friend. 

Yes, Geralt was tough and didn’t like to show much emotion. No, he wasn’t very outwardly kind. But despite all these things, Jaskier felt a connection to the burly man, and even liked how harsh and blunt he could often be. 

And better yet, Jaskier realized that during the entire time he’d spent with the Witcher, he hadn’t had an episode. Not a single one. Maybe it was the change of scenery, or perhaps the change of company. Maybe Jaskier was just too distracted with the horrible monsters they faced on a weekly basis to think about the monsters of his past. 

Whatever the reason, Jaskier felt the happiest he’d ever been. He felt fulfilled, he was getting action-packed, exclusive content for his medlies, and he’d made a new friend - even if Geralt wouldn’t admit it. 

Life was good. 

But the demons of one’s past never truly leave - something Jaskier would learn. 

One night, after many days of traveling, the Witcher and the bard rented a room in a small inn called The Bluejay, which belonged in an even smaller village. The surroundings were calm and quaint, and not too far from peaceful. The room and hot meal that The Bluejay provided was a welcome change for Geralt and Jaskier, who had spent the last several nights sleeping outside. 

When they’d first arrived, and after Geralt had made sure his beloved horse Roach was taken care of, the Witcher had gruffly ordered them a room, and some supper at the tavern that made up the ground floor of the building. 

Jaskier, wanting to take advantage of the potential for an audience, retrieved his lute from its case and set to playing one of his newest pieces. Jaskier loved Geralt, but the Witcher simply lacked an adequate amount of respect for his art. 

Sure enough, Geralt rolled his eyes as he sat down with a large mug of ale, recognizing the song that he’d heard Jaskier practicing relentlessly during their time on the road. 

The bard winked at him good humoredly as he sang out his tune. The night was warm, but not hot, and the crowd, though not large, was lively enough. It seemed that everyone was enjoying his singing, and even Geralt settled back after a while, a content expression on his face. 

When the bard had finally finished, he gave a sweeping bow to the audience, collected a few generously given coins, and joined Geralt at a table. 

“Had your fun, bard?” The Witcher asked flatly, though Jaskier could hear the good-humor in his friend’s voice. 

“Yes, actually, I have.” 

A pretty, stout woman - the innkeeper's wife - brought him a mug just like Geralt’s, only this one was filled with water. 

“What a lovely voice you have, lad,” she said kindly as she set it on the table. 

Jaskier grinned up at her. “Why thank you good lady,” he said with a nod, raising his glass to her before drinking deeply. 

Geralt watched him with half-concealed fondness. 

Once Jaskier had finished his drink, he pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Well, I’m off to take a bath.”

“Good - you need one,” the Witcher said gruffly. 

Jaskier pretended to act offended. “Oi, some right you have - I’m the one who’s had to put up with your stinking arse. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you bathe.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, then returned to his ale. 

Waving him off, Jaskier headed for the stairs. 

As he passed the bar, he heard two women - he assumed workers - talking quietly among themselves. 

“Honestly, he’s like a peacock, so frilly and proud. Thinks he’s all that, he does.”

“Aye. Men like that,” the woman shook her head, “tis a pity. They’ll live their whole lives thinking they’ve talent when they’re just as rubbish as the rest of us.”

The women laughed, and Jaskier’s pace slowed. 

He stopped for a moment, his face draining as the sudden memory hit him. 

He heard his mother’s voice - a sound he had almost forgotten, but knew he never could:

‘You fool! You’re no better than the rest of us. You’ll always be nothing.  
No, you’re worse than nothing - you’re an embarrassment to us all.’

Jaskier felt his lungs filling up with the repressed memory. He couldn’t breathe, and he was sure he was about to vomit. 

Propelling himself forward, he rocketed up the stairs, stumbling half blindly until he finally found the door to their room. He opened it and fell inside, slamming it shut behind him, slumping against the wall next to it. 

His breathing hitched in his throat, which was burning like he’d swallowed fire. His chest was screaming at him, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. 

His head was reeling with an avalanche of memories he had repressed, memories that were now flooding back so aggressively that he thought he would be buried alive.  
He felt like he was floating away. Like he would begin to dissolve, inch by inch, until there was nothing left of him. 

As if to see if he was still there, he reached his hands up to his head, digging his nails into his scalp. He grabbed handfuls of hair, pulling until it hurt. 

That seemed to help a little, so he went even further. 

Spinning around so he was facing the wall, propped up on his knees, Jaskier began to knock his forehead against the wood. Bang, bang, bang. Soft at first, but then harder. 

As the aching pain in his head grew, it drowned out the thoughts, so he kept doing it.

Bang, bang, bang. 

He would keep going until the memories faded to black. 

From his seat at the table, Geralt had watched the bard perform, recognizing one of the newest songs Jaskier had been working on. Geralt’s face screwed up mildly at the parts that were blatant lies, but he couldn’t help but smirk at the little sparks of humor that the bard had added. While he’d never admit it to Jaskier, the Witcher actually didn’t mind his singing. Singing was a part of Jaskier, and while the bard annoyed him endlessly with his songs, Geralt wouldn’t change that. 

The tavern had been quiet and relaxed, common with the small villages they stayed in, however the change in mood he’d summoned with his presence had not been lost to the observant Witcher. It was like this wherever he went, but he still wasn’t used to it. He tried his best to be non-threatening, when such an approach was necessary, but how much of himself could he try to change for the sake of a prejudiced species. Humans would always despise him, so he wasn’t even sure why he bothered. 

But then he looked at Jaskier, and he had his answer. He tried because there were good humans out there. Humans like Jaskier, who didn’t give a rat’s ass that Geralt was a Witcher. Deep down he knew that he was thankful for the bard; in many ways, Jaskier had made him realize much about himself. 

But still, Geralt was a creature of habit; after decades of traveling alone, it was strange to always be in the company of someone. It wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was an adjustment. So, when after his performance, Jaskier declared that he was going to take a bath, Geralt was glad for the opportunity to be alone. 

After the bard had disappeared up the stairs (in quite a rush, Geralt had noted with a feeling of puzzlement), he finished his ale, paid, and decided to head to their room for an early night. With all luck, Geralt would be asleep by the time Jaskier returned. 

Geralt climbed the stairs, absentmindedly thinking over their provisions, making a mental note of the things they needed to buy before setting out the next day.  
Bang, bang, bang. 

The Witcher heard the sound before he’d reached the landing. It was soft, at first, but then it got louder and louder. Geralt tensed, his hand going to the knife at his belt. All of his senses were alert.

Then he heard something else -- a rasping breath beneath the rhythmic pounding. 

‘Jaskier?’ The Witcher thought. 

Then he rolled his eyes, letting out an annoyed grunt. 

If that wretched bard had brought a woman to bed in their shared room, Jaskier would be sleeping in the streets. 

Geralt headed for their room, ready to confront whatever was going on. 

But nothing would have prepared him. 

The Witcher flung open the door. With a quick glance, he found the two beds to be empty. 

Puzzled, he scanned the room, quickly discovering Jaskier. 

The bard was slumped against the floor, ramming his head into the wall over and over again. 

Geralt was confused. Geralt was also concerned. The latter emotion took precedence in his mind. 

“Jaskier. Jaskier, stop!” The Witcher shouted, reaching forward to grab the bard by the arm. 

Jaskier jumped, leaning away from Geralt’s grip, trying to escape. His eyes had opened, but they stared blankly, like Jaskier wasn’t really seeing what was in front of him. 

Jaskier’s breathing caught in his throat, and the Witcher’s chest tightened. After only a moment's pause, Jaskier began to bang his head into the wall again, though not nearly as hard as he’d been. 

The Witcher saw that a bruise had already begun to form. The bard was going to do some serious damage if he kept at it. 

“Stop -- Jaskier stop,” Geralt said, his tone softening as he saw how out of it Jaskier really was. 

Rather than wait for compliance, Geralt knelt down next to his friend and placed a hand on Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier didn’t stop, but now rather than his head hitting the wall, it hit Geralt’s hand instead. 

He put his other hand on the bard’s shoulder. 

“Jaskier, look at me.” He said firmly, sounding meaner than he intended. 

Truth was, Geralt was scared, and he wanted to get to the bottom of whatever was happening here. 

He said it again. “Look at me, now.”

With much hesitation, Jaskier lifted his eyes to meet Geralt’s face. 

He must have seen the concern there, and it must have startled him, as the bard’s eyes cleared with recognition for the first time since Geralt had entered the room.  
The Witcher’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. 

Now that Jaskier had turned his head away from the wall, Geralt took advantage of this and, placing both hands firmly on the smaller man’s shoulders, turned the rest of his body so they were facing each other. 

“No.” The word escaped Jaskier in a breathy whimper. “No, no no no no, I--” He raised his hand to rub his face. 

“Ah, fuck,” he shouted as his fingers brushed the growing bruise that spread across his forehead. 

Geralt’s hands shot out, grabbing Jaskier by the wrists. 

“Don’t touch it,” he said. 

Jaskier looked down at their hands, his face twisted in obvious pain. When the bard looked up to meet Geralt’s face, the Witcher was shocked to see tears in his eyes. 

Geralt’s head lulled to one side, concern written all over his features. 

“Fuck Geralt- I’m so sorry- I… I thought that I-” 

Geralt noticed that the bard was shaking. 

“Alright… Hey, it’s alright,” the Witcher said in a voice that surprised even himself. 

Something about seeing his friend like this had made him tear down any emotional wall he had ever built. 

Jaskier’s gaze had fallen again, and he hung his head like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore. 

“Hey,” Geralt said. “Jask, look at me.” The bard slowly lifted his eyes. 

“Talk to me,” he said firmly. 

Jaskier stared at him blankly, and the Witcher was just about to shake him when the bard gave a weak laugh. 

“That’s a new one from you - telling me to talk, rather than shut up.” He said with a weak smirk. 

Geralt sighed, seeing that his friend was back. This time he did shake him, still holding onto his wrists. 

“Dammit, Jaskier.” But his tone was one of relief. 

“I’m-- so sorry.” The bard managed to say, and he sounded so remorseful that Geralt couldn’t help shaking his head. 

“What happened,” he asked after a moment of silence. 

Jaskier’s hands sagged in his grasp; Geralt had almost forgotten he was holding them. He let go slowly, making sure to be gentle. Jaskier’s hand fell onto his lap, and the bard’s whole body seemed to slump. 

“Talk to me,” he said again, still kneeling by the bard, still waiting. 

Jaskier sighed. 

“Um… well,” he started, trying to sound like his old chipper self, but failing. 

He sighed again, and even the Witcher could tell how hard this was for him. 

So Geralt turned away from Jaskier, leaning back against the door. The bard watched him wide eyed for a moment, as if he thought he might leave. But the Witcher just sat there, back against the door, staring at the opposite wall of the room. He would wait for as long as it took for Jaskier to be okay again.

Seemingly sensing this, Jaskier did the same, shifting until he sat with his back against the wall. 

The bard felt exhausted, but he could also feel his mind wandering. He fidget with his hands, picking at an old scab.  
Geralt watched this for a moment, then said, “What do you need from me?”

Jaskier gave a shaking breath, then looked up to see if the Witcher was being serious. 

“Well… Could I just…” 

The bard scooted closer to the witcher, closing the space in between them until they bumped shoulders. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, shooting a sideways glance at his friend, who gave him a self-conscious look in return. 

“I just-- I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.” 

“Okay…” Geralt said, wanting to be helpful, but not really knowing what to say.

Jaskier was the one who usually did the talking. 

Thankfully for Geralt, it seemed that the bard was getting some of himself back with every passing moment. 

“I,” he hesitated before decidingly continuing. “I have these… things sometimes. Had them ever since I left home. And… they make me feel…” Jaskier struggled to continue.  
“Like you’re losing your fucking mind?” Geralt offered, somewhat humorously. 

To the Witcher’s relief, the bard chucked a little, though he sounded exhausted. 

“Yeah… yeah, that.” He let his head fall back to gently rest against the wall. 

Geralt kept a close eye, just in case. 

They fell into silence, and Geralt noticed that Jaskier was working to keep his breathing in time with his own. 

Geralt didn’t know what to say to his friend. Somehow he’d never even thought to imagine the bard’s past. The Witcher was no stranger to childhood traumas and felt as if, in some small way, he might be able to understand what Jaskier was feeling.

“I think I know what you mean,” he started hesitantly. 

Jaskier, who had been spacing out, looked at him. 

“You do?”

“Yes, I think so. But Jaskier, you can’t be doing this,” he said, nodding towards the wall. 

Jaskier looked at his lap, a pained expression on his face. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like that,” he whispered, almost to himself. 

“Well,” the Witcher said in his own kindly way, “Let’s make sure it’s a long time before it happens again.”

Geralt ducked his head, leaning forward to meet his friend’s fallen gaze. Hesitantly, Jaskier let his eyes wander to Geralt’s face. 

“I feel pitiful,” the bard said in an almost comical whine, sounding very much like himself. 

Geralt sat back up, shrugging. 

“We’ll just tell everyone you got your ass kicked trying to ward off robbers, or something.” 

Jaskier chuckled. 

“Maybe I’ll write a song about it. ‘The Pathetic Singing Pest.’”

Geralt stiffened. Was that how Jaskier really felt about himself? ‘Why wouldn’t he,’ Geralt suddenly thought. ‘With all the times you’ve made him feel that way.’

“You’re not a pest.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows at the Witcher.  
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard that correctly.”

“Probably because you’ve given yourself a concussion.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Well, I must be concussed if I’m hearing the great Geralt of Rivia telling me he doesn’t think I’m a pest.”

“Mmm,” the Witcher grunted softly.

The bard yawned. 

Geralt rose from his place on the ground. Standing above Jaskier, he offered the bard a hand. 

With a thankful look in his eyes, Jaskier accepted, allowing Geralt to pull him up. 

“Woah,” Geralt muttered as Jaskier swayed on his feet. 

The Witcher wrapped an arm around the bard’s waist as Jaskier leaned heavily into him, groaning. 

“Ow,” Jaskier moaned. 

“Geralt grunted. “Off to bed with you.” 

With help from the Witcher, Jaskier practically fell onto the cot. Still in his clothes, the drained bard fell asleep almost instantly. 

Though he was tired, Geralt stayed up long into the night watching his friend and thinking. For the first time since they’d met, Geralt realized that there was so much that he didn’t know about Jaskier. 

For the first time, Geralt realized how much Jaskier really meant to him, and how much he meant to the bard. 

For the first time, Geralt allowed himself to be unashamedly glad for Jaskier’s presence in his life. 

It felt good.

**Author's Note:**

> If I failed to tag any possible triggers, please let me know so I can make updates to the tags.


End file.
